


Second Second Chances

by Kestrel337



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Eventual Johnlock, Fandom Trumps Hate, Grief, M/M, Other, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-09 23:10:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10423899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: Mary died.Rosie lost her mother.John lost his wife.Sherlock lost a friend.Together, they will find a family.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluebellofbakerstreet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebellofbakerstreet/gifts).



> BlueBellofBakerStreet was the winning bidder on my Fandom Trumps Hate offering.
> 
> She requested Parentlock, with young Rosie as seen in the montage ending S4E3. This is a multi-chapter fic.
> 
> Things I am choosing to ignore from BBC Canon: Magnussen, Sherlock's exile, the manner of Mary's death, probably everything from The Final Problem, a lot of The Lying Detective 
> 
> Things I am keeping from BBC Canon: Mary's past coming to light before Rosie is born, John and Mary reconciling and making a go of it
> 
> The rating may go up. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and Bluebellofbakerstreet, thank you for helping make the world a more hopeful place. I hope you enjoy!

Sherlock had recovered from the mission in Bangkok by sleeping for eighteen hours. He’d eaten, showered, and sent what was salvageable out for cleaning. He’d been to the debriefing, eaten again, slept some more. And now he was cataloging area soils in a desperate attempt to keep busy until a case presented itself. When the doorbell finally rang, in Lestrade’s particular pattern, he shut down the microscope and quick-timed it down the stairs to let him in. 

“What is it? Locked room? Serial killer? Not embezzlement, I won’t do those anymore,” he said, before Greg could open his mouth. 

“No, actually. Um. Welfare check.” He coughed and shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just said.

Sherlock stared. “Welfare check? Knocking up pensioners who miss their appointments? That’s not even a one, why are you bringing this to me? ” 

“Nice. Heard from John lately?” He barely waited for Sherlock’s head shake before continuing, “Didn’t think so. John’s why I’m doing it. He’s not been to work, hasn’t taken Rosie to daycare, isn’t answering his phone. It’s been a few days.”

“Is he visitingTed and Stella?” They’d been helpful -overbearingly so, Sherlock had thought- during those first awful days after Mary’s death.

Lestrade grimaced. “Sally called them right off. Turns out they’re in Iceland. Emigrated,” he explained. “Then she remembered the date.” Sherlock winced. It was a year ago, almost to the day, that Greg had called Sherlock to tell him a traffic accident had taken Mary Watson. The driver had never been identified. 

“I’ll get my coat.” Back downstairs he climbed into Lestrade’s car and said, “You don’t think…” but couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.

Lestrade checked once, checked twice, and pulled into the traffic lane. “No. I don’t. Not this time. But...well, if he’s on a bender, or, hell, I don’t know. Better if friends come, yeah? Rather than just some uniform who doesn’t know him?” 

“Of course.” 

They rode the rest of the way in silence, Sherlock staring out the window and worrying at one thumbnail. John shouldn’t have been alone, not today, probably not this week. 

“When did you hear from him last?” Greg shot him a look from the driver’s seat and turned his attention back to the road.

“Couple weeks ago. I texted him when I was called to Thailand. He replied, said he was at work and couldn’t chat, but that he knew the case was in good hands and that I should watch my six.” 

Greg nodded, then asked the question Sherlock had been dreading. “How’re you doing, then? Rough week.” The question was weighted with all the things Greg wouldn’t speak specifically about; love, loss, tragedy and grief. Mary Watson had been gone a year this week, and it seemed Lestrade wasn’t going to let the date pass unremarked. 

Sherlock raised his chin and said, “Your concern is misplaced. Let’s keep the focus on her widow.” 

“Yeah, sure. He’s not the only one who lost her, though.” Greg left it at that and pulled into an open spot two cars away from John’s green Audi. 

A glance into the car as they passed it showed that it was mostly tidy, empty, with the car seat in place and a diaper bag on the backseat. Sherlock laid a hand over the bonnet, but everything was cold. Greg carried on to the door, ringing the bell and knocking loudly. “John? John, it’s Greg. Are you in there?” While he waited for an answer, Sherlock pointed out the daily newspapers that had gathered by the door and held up five fingers. Greg nodded, and pounded again on the door. 

Finally, there came the sound of the lock being turned, and the door opened to show John, blinking owlishly out of a darkened flat. “Greg? Sherlock? What’s going on?” His voice was hushed, rough and rusty, and he cast a nervous glance back into the house. The reason for his apprehension revealed itself when a miserable wail sounded from somewhere not terribly far away. “Oh, hell.” John turned wearily from the door, gesturing for the other men to come in, and limped to a porta-crib that had been set up a bare arm’s length from the sofa. He lifted a red-faced bundle of misery into his arms and began to sway gently back and forth, shushing and soothing until she stopped screaming and snuffled into his neck. With a relieved sigh he nodded to his guests and indicated they should sit down. 

Sherlock looked around him, taking in the two baskets overflowing with laundry, the abandoned dressing gown, and the sip cups and mugs that littered the coffee table. A glance into the kitchen revealed more brightly colored but soiled dishes and a pile of soggy bibs. A haphazardly torn package of diapers sat on the dining table. 

The sofa had been made up into a bed with a flattened pillow and wrinkled blanket. Greg stood awkwardly in the mess. “We got a call from the clinic,” he began. “They were worried about you, said you haven’t been in to work, haven’t answered your phone.” 

John’s mobile was sitting on the side table, resting on a wireless charger. He picked it up in one shaking hand, never stopping the absent rocking motion. He pressed the button, trying to power it up, but nothing happened. Sherlock leaned over and tapped the dark LED on the Qi pad, then tugged gently at the cord until the plug rose into view. 

John uttered a mild curse and squinched his eyes shut as if in pain. “Oh god.” 

“Yes, well, there’s that answered. But John, what’s been going on here?” Greg’s gesture took in the wreck of the house, John’s exhausted and bedraggled state, the baby who had fallen back to sleep against her father. He waited while John gingerly settled her into the porta-cot, holding his breath when he pulled his hands away. She grumbled slightly, drawing one fist into her mouth, and settling again.

Once she was down, John stood and ran a hand through his hair. “I need tea,” he said, speaking the last word through an expansive yawn.

Greg was in the kitchen before John’s mouth had closed. Not that his haste was going to result in a quick cuppa; There were no clean cups left, the teapot held a dank brown puddle with a heavy skin on top, and the kettle had somehow wound up in the refrigerator. Counting himself lucky that there was actually milk on hand, and that it didn’t smell like it’d gone off, he filled the sink and began washing the dishes. 

“You don’t...I…” John gave up when Greg shot him a scolding look, instead shoving the blanket and pillow behind of the sofa and sinking down onto the cushions. He tipped his head back and sat in utter stillness for a long moment, before sitting up and saying, “Okay, so my phone wasn’t answering and I’d not been to work. That’s alarming, yes, but why call the police? They could’ve just come round. Not like they don’t know the address.” 

Greg rinsed the teapot and filled it with hot tap water before answering. “I think they were worried what they’d find. Given the date.” 

John’s face went from blank, to wide eyed with dawning realization. “Oh. Oh, God. I lost track. A year ago yesterday.” A heartbeat, two, three, and self-reproach gave way to rising outrage. “They thought I’d what, lasted out the year, then hit a rough patch and made some final dramatic gesture? I don’t even want to think what they thought I’d done with Rosie. And you two believed them? You honestly thought I was suicidal?”

“You were when I met you,” Sherlock said, acerbic with worry and guilt. “It’s not so unjustified as you’re making it out.”

Greg stepped over and laid a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “Okay, Sherlock. Enough. How ‘bout you do the tea, let me handle this?” 

The kettle snapped off, and Sherlock grudgingly took over in the kitchen. John had closed his eyes again, and didn’t see the look that passed between them.

Greg sat again, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Of course we didn’t believe it, but once the call comes in there is a duty to be discharged. Look,” he said, and paused, running through the situation in his mind. “Okay, right. So your work knows you’ve left early to pick up a sick kid. You’ve already been going it alone for several weeks -and we’ll have words about that, Watson, don’t think you’re off the hook on that count- Daycare calls work, they’ve already been trying to reach you, everyone compares notes, and then, yeah, they get scared. The call comes in, your name is recognized and they pass it up to me. Because I’m your friend. So. Care to tell me what’s going on, and what we can do to help?” 

Sherlock rummaged in the cupboards while John thought it all through. “You’re out of sugar. There’s a few biscuits, though.” 

John shook his head. “Not hungry. Just tea. As to what’s been going on, we’ve run the gauntlet. Started with a strep infection; that’s why I had to collect her from care. Strep led to tonsillitis, then to an ear infection. So, yeah, it’s been a bit of hard going.” He shuddered and yawned. “So much crying. And yeah, I’m exhausted. But I think we’re past the worst of it now.” 

Greg took in his ashen face, the glassy and unfocused eyes, considered the raspy voice and refusal of food. “You’re more than exhausted, mate. Don’t need to be a GP to know how contagious strep is; from where I sit, you’re dropping fast.” 

Sherlock brought in the tea, setting it carefully on the coffee table and unceremoniously pushing John’s hair back to feel his forehead. John batted weakly at him. “Get off. That’s terribly unscientific; you won’t be able to tell anything that way.” 

Sherlock hummed. “Unscientific in that I don’t have a precise number to report, but it tells me enough. You’ve a fever, John. Throat sore? Hurts to swallow?”

“Shut up.” 

“Surly, too,” Sherlock observed to Greg. “Always cantankerous when he’s ill.” 

“I don’t have time to be ill,” John told them. “I need to look after Rosie and try to make things up to my boss. I’ll be lucky to escape with my job as it is.”

Sherlock looked about to argue, but Greg stepped smoothly into the moment. “Fair enough. We’ll have some tea and let you get on with it, then.” He picked up his cup, raising his eyebrows and daring a glance at the armchair next to the sofa. Sherlock took the hint and sat down with his own cup. 

They sipped, slow and silent. John’s eyelids drooped. Soon he was leaning back against the cushions and sighing. Sherlock plucked the mug from his hand before it could tumble to the floor. Between them, Sherlock and Greg maneuvered John until he was horizontal with an afghan draped over him.

“I reckon we’ve got about two hours before he wakes up. You want laundry or dishes?” Greg was collecting up the soiled mugs. 

Sherlock shook his head. “He’s going to need more than just a quick housekeeping service. The portacot would fit in his bedroom, and there’s a spare bed in the nursery. Why’s he sleeping in the sitting room?” He gestured at the table. “Dining table being used for changing diapers? Untidy I can accept under the circumstances, but that’s downright unsanitary. He’s been living in this room, and I think for longer than just the last few days. He’s dropping, yes, but it’s more than just strep.” 

Greg nodded consideringly. “Let’s check upstairs.” 

Rosie’s bedroom was a shambles. The cot was partially disassembled, with the instructions for converting it to a toddler bed stuck to the wall with cellotape. “There’s that explained, then.” Sherlock turned into the master bedroom. Two open cardboard boxes stood waiting on the floor, alongside a bin bag, and piles of clothing covered the bed. 

Greg picked up a thin lavender blouse with black floral motifs. “Sherlock,” he said, voice heavy with realization.

“Yes.” Sherlock had picked up a photograph from the dresser top. He touched one fingertip to Mary’s smiling face. When he caught Greg looking at him, he set it down decisively. “Right. He can't keep sleeping on that sofa, and this task isn't mine to finish. Let’s pack up what they’re going to need. I’ll take them back to Baker Street, at least until John’s back on his feet.” 

“But...Sherlock, she’s just a baby. Your flat…”

“The flat can handle Rosie Watson. John can have his old room.” 

“For how long?”

“Until he’s ready to face all of this again. He’s stubborn; I don’t imagine it will be for long.” 

There was a wistful undertone to Sherlock’s words, but Greg didn’t comment on it.


End file.
